


A Village Hunted

by ArtofLupin



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:48:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22684225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtofLupin/pseuds/ArtofLupin
Summary: Ragnar makes the deadly mistake of investigating a bump in the night...
Kudos: 1





	A Village Hunted

Tossing and turning in his hay cot, Ragnar was eventually roused by the high pitched squeals of his sows just outside. Whispering a curse, as to not wake his woman, he haphazardly pulled on his moth-eaten deerskin boots and plucked his grandfather’s longbow from its resting spot upon the dining table. Snatching a fistful of arrows, praying to whatever god that would hear him they weren’t the ones with the dented heads he intended to mend that morning.

Arrow notched in his quiver, the simple rancher had little time to mentally prepare himself for whatever hunter was out there harassing his pigs. All he knew was without his livestock, there was no way he, his wife, nor any of his five tots were going to make it that winter.

With a deep breath, he pushed the thoughts of fangs and claws as far from his mind as he could and raced for the pen. All eight sows had been driven mad. Bucking their stumpy hooves and tossing their heads back and forth, all while squealing like their bellies were being melted from the inside out. Though all eight had lost all good sense, all eight were still there.

The family man, adrenaline coursing through every vein of his body, carefully scanned the black surroundings like a sentry on the watch of a princess’s keep. Despite himself, he found nothing but the inky blackness accompanying him and his herd. He fine-tuned his cauliflower ears and listened for a single rustle or twig snap from the surrounding forest, but found the tree-line completely devoid of all sound.

Tiredness subtly reclaiming him, the rancher relaxed his aim and tended to the pigs. He snatched the fly coated bucket of gruel and prepared to toss it to the agitated breeding stock in an attempt to break them of whatever panicked spell they had been placed under. When all of a sudden an icy sensation gripped his hand. He looked down and found a fine layer of frost had coated the rope handle.

He watched the shards of fragile ice slide down his calloused palm in utter bafflement. He never learned much when it came to stars and their respective positions during the year, but even he knew it was far too early in the year for morning frost.

Though his rationale was soon shattered by the continued cries of his herd. He chucked the contents of the filthy bucket in the direction of the pigs' trough to no effect. The pigs continued to panic and scream as if the grim reaper himself stood behind him.

Growing agitation mixing with the lack of sleep caused the normally calm nature of the father of five to lose his temper. He banged on the wood planks of the pen and shouted for the pigs to silence themselves. As he did a thick cloud of warm vapor emitted from his mouth and swallowed his face and whiskers. He was given pause by the unexpected sensation and again momentarily forgot about the pigs.

He forcibly sucked in the early morning air, and a tinge of sharp pain expanded in his lungs as he did. Following through with a hefty exhale, an even more robust cloud of vapor covered his face and poorly maintained facial hair. He was suddenly reminded of a hardly noteworthy conversation just yesterday when he complained to his wife about the obnoxious wave of heat they had been experiencing.

A thunderous volley of shouts in the distance echoed throughout the valley of his village. His head reactivity snapped in the direction of the source. Nothing odd was immediately clear aside from the other dozen or so cabins had to been covered in an outstanding amount of fluffy snow.

Further shouts followed the first as did the pounding of heavy horse hooves. Ragnar felt a fresh wave of adrenaline rush through his toes to the tips of his ears. The back of his mind suddenly shouting, screaming for him to drop everything and run.

Just managing to swallow the urge to join in his pig’s hysterics, Ragnar commanded his trembling fingers to notch one of his hand made arrows. Mouth dry and without feeling, he scanned the horizon in a panic, but again found nothing aside from heavy drapes of darkness coating his eyes. Till it began raining, then sleeting, then snowing.

Cursing the devilry at foot, he took several cautious steps in the direction of the ever-growing ruckus. The clamor of hooves and shouts, now louder than ever, had now been accompanied by the clanking of metal and the distinctive thunderclaps of a fist pounding on a shield.

Ragnar’s shivering fingers dropped the bent, handcrafted pine arrow as he finally laid eyes upon the source. Rounding up the old hill that sat above his sleepy village emerged a seemingly endless horde of black-clad, heavily armored riders on horses the color of the void. Accompanying the front wave of riders was a wall of white living snow. Frost of unquestionable density pounded recklessly into tall old oak trees, snapping them as if newly planted saplings.

The simple rancher could only watch as the horde made contact with the first few houses, houses filled with families and ranchers just like him, and tore them apart in seconds. Whatever the snow and ice didn’t obliterate, the dark riders would set ablaze.

Any strong-willed survivors who dug themselves up from the frost would be plucked from the ground like ripe carrots and driven through with glimmering blades. Casting crimson all over the freshly laid ice. Hounds seeming birthed from the bowels of hell chased after screaming children as their owners skewered the parents in droves.

Ragnar felt his knees tremble, his dry mouth suddenly filling with bile as he helplessly watched his friends and neighbors be swallowed up by forces he thought only real in fables. Soon enough, a smaller group of five riders strode up the hill and stood a few feet ahead of him in mere seconds. Their armor was encrusted with layers of blue ice, with spikes of frozen weather forming off their shoulders and gauntlets. They stared back at him with empty black eyes through steel helms shaped like skulls.

One dropped off his horse and casually strode towards him, drawing his long, jagged, other-worldly looking sword. Ragnar could hear his companions chuckling behind the menacing man. The black rider gestured to the bow in Ragnar’s hands, which he had completely forgotten he was still holding, and then to himself. Another bout of laughter erupted from his cronies.

After the figure repeated the motion several times, Ragnar finally understood the meaning. Without seeing any alternative, the simple rancher notched a fresh arrow and shakily aimed for the ghostly soldier’s breastplate. He tried taking several breaths to steady his aim, but it was no use. Relaxing hold of the arrow, it miraculously flew true and nailed the monster between the arm and breastplate in a sliver of exposed chain mail.

The blow was enough to cause the creature to slightly recoil and his friends to grow quiet. However, a fraction of a second later the lovingly crafted pine arrow dropped uselessly to the ground. Even still from that distance, Ragnar could see that the arrow was - in fact - one of the few he intended to repair that morning.

The assaulted rider stomped on the arrow, snapping it in two, and slowly made his way towards the trembling family man. As he did, his companions too dismounted and charged for the cabin. The rider before him shoved him easily to the ground, his grandfather’s bow sent skittering away across the icy soil. As the sounds of his family being slaughtered behind him penetrated his eardrums like nails, the dark rider raised his crooked sword high above Ragnar’s head, the glimmer reflecting the rancher’s green eyes.

Then suddenly, all was silent.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Thanks for reading my Witcher Fanfic!
> 
> Let me know what you thought in the comments. If you enjoyed it, consider checking one of my many other short stories on my website!
> 
> Want to receive regular updates on my works - including updates on my original works like ‘Neo,’ a cyberpunk-themed mystery series - submit your email to MarkLupinWrites@gmail.com and I’ll get you on my mailing list!
> 
> Thanks!
> 
> Website: ArtofLupin.com
> 
> Email: MarkLupinWrites@gmail.com
> 
> Twitter: @ArtofLupin


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